


Live Your Dreams (And Nightmares - Aren't They One and the Same?)

by Jaune_Chat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, HYDRA Trash Party, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Pre-HYDRA Reveal, Rimming, Seriously He Deserved It, Sexual Fantasy, fragile masculinity, seriously messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/pseuds/Jaune_Chat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow can't get Steve Rogers out of his head.  Or his imagined sex life.  And it's going to drive him insane before he's allowed to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at [HYDRA Trash Party.](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1504.html?thread=1964768#cmt1964768) Guys, you know the drill, this is going to be a squicky ride! Note the giant **NONCON/RAPE** header up there, because not everyone's saying yes in this fic. Actually, no one. No one's saying yes in this fic. No consent. None.

He wanted Cap to notice.

He needed Cap to not notice at all.

Rumlow needed Cap to know he was just a good SHIELD soldier, back-up for Captain America, his second-in-command who didn't mind being upstaged by a living legend, but wasn't intimidated by Cap's star status. HYDRA needed Steve Rogers to be blindsided, unaware, so that when everything was in place, they could take him down easily. The last thing command wanted was a repeat of history.

And the last thing Rumlow wanted was Cap to notice was how he was ruining Brock's life.

Captain America was designed to be a weapon, the most perfect representation of humanity with all physical and mental abilities honed to the sharpest edge. He hit harder, moved faster, recovered quicker, saw farther, was in a lot of ways a one-man army when he wanted to be. And yet when he was leading Rumlow's STRIKE team, he tried to include them all, making plans and taking point like he gave a crap. If they fucked up, Cap covered it, took care of it, and then would _sit down_ with them afterwards, breaking down their mistakes like a goddamn football coach and trying to make it better.

“You'll get it next time, Brock. I know you will.”

Fucking hell. 

If HYDRA hadn't depended on Rogers' complacency, Rumlow would have kicked his ass months ago. Technically Rogers was ninety-something years old, but he hadn't experienced more than twenty-five years of life. Rumlow was almost double his age, his entire adult life in the military or covert ops, and he didn't need some kid telling him his mistakes. Even or especially if he was right. Rumlow took care of his people, but SHIELD was sending them after some nasty characters, and everyone had upped their game once Tony Stark had let the superhero cat out of the bag. HYDRA command was sometimes right in line with who SHIELD wanted taken down, because those disorganized assholes couldn't have handled the new world order anyway.

Still, a lot of assignments were rough, and Rogers had sat down with Rumlow more than once to go over the after-action reports.

Rumlow figured it must have been some modification from the super-solder serum, something to, he didn't even know exactly, disarm the enemy in close combat? Or form a better unit with him at the head? What could even explain that Rogers always smelled perfect even after they'd been slogging their way through some filthy, Third-world would-be warlord's compound or some God-forsaken jungle camp or desert cave? Sitting with Rogers in a locker room while they discussed how the mission could have gone better always ended up with Rumlow being the last man out.

Because he wanted to kick Rogers' ass. But he couldn't stop his mind from slewing sideways when Rogers turned on his Captain America act. 

After Rogers left, Rumlow would have one hand around his dick in the showers, trying to relax, when everything would go merrily to hell worse than it ever had in the field. Because even after Rogers left, he was still fucking _there_ in Rumlow's head, a vivid jerk-off fantasy that did not want to shut up.

“Could've gone better today, Brock,” Rogers said from behind him, feet splashing slightly as he moved to a nearby showerhead to sluice off the shit that never seemed to stick to him. Rumlow growled silently at the familiarity – the only people who used his first name were a few close friends. Even the one-night fucks he picked up at bars he usually lied about who he was, not needing any complications, any memories of his name on the lips of some bimbo who would probably be underneath another hard body later that night. But Rogers just said it like it was his God-given right.

“Didn't ask for your opinion, Cap,” Rumlow said, not turning around, scrubbing away sweat and grime and wishing his stress would go with it. “STRIKE's my unit; you just make it look shiny for Fury's nostalgia.”

There was a moment of deathly silence as Rumlow realized he'd let the filter clean off his tongue.

“What was that, Brock?” Roger's voice was calm steel, the sort of tone Brock Sr. would use whenever his son had indulged in backtalk.

The memory of pain and the scarred reminder of how those lessons had turned out made fear thrill down Rumlow's spine. He turned to see Rogers facing him, looking... _disappointed_ , shaking his head like Rumlow had made some stupid rookie mistake. Rogers was a damn _kid_ , and Rumlow didn't have to put up with his over-earnest unearned righteousness. He turned the slow turn into a sudden fast right cross, all his speed focused and pure.

Rogers didn't duck, twist, or block, didn't use Rumlow's force against him, just held out his palm and let Rumlow hit it like he was catching a baseball in a mitt. Rumlow's punch stopped dead, without effort, with no pain on Rogers' part, while Rogers just looked down on him with stern disapproval.

“Poor move, son.” Rogers clasped his hand and threw Rumlow's fist back at him, twisting at the same time so Rumlow's arms were trapped against his chest and Rogers was plastered against his back. They were both slippery and wet with soap, but Rumlow could feel the sudden hard erection as Rogers' dick made contact with his backside. He sucked in a breath in shock, feeling hot and violated all over as his own dick suddenly went hard. The adrenaline had him in its throes, and Rogers' grip was relentless.

“You wanted my attention, Brock, and you've got it now. Poor move.” Rogers forced Rumlow's head down and kicked his feet apart, using his free hand to reach down and take Rumlow's cock in his hand. “You want it,” he said again, squeezing hard before moving his hand back to position his dick against Rumlow's asshole. “You got it.” Rumlow couldn't even scream as Rogers thick cock breached him, tore him apart, the soap and water slicking the way but just making everything burn that much more. But what was even worse was when Rogers' hand moved back down to his dick and stroked him back to hardness in under five seconds. Rumlow had never had a chance, never, he was never going to be able to-

“You make a good soldier, Brock. Just as long as you follow orders.” Rogers' hips were thrusting hard, his massive arm tugging Rumlow back against him, digging him deep and forcing pitiful, shameful little grunts out of him as sparks of pleasure shot through the pain. He was throbbing in Rogers' grip, a pathetic little bitch whining for more as Rogers fucking scent wreathed around him in the steam. 

Gasping, his mouth falling slack, Rumlow came hard in his hand, his head pillowed against his arm on the shower wall, the echoes reverberating around the empty shower.

\---

It took hitting the off-base bars for a week straight to bury that memory under a blur of alcohol and tits whose owners he didn't even remember. It was stupid, a fantasy because everyone and their dog had grown up with Captain America's face as the perfect ideal, and who hadn't had him on their bedroom wall at least once, so there was a free pass with Rogers. He was there for the whole damn country to look at, and everyone did it.

Everyone.

It wasn't gay if it was Captain America.

If Rumlow could just put that as a slogan over Rogers' old war posters, then he just might almost believe it.

Or maybe he could just say that he was being forced to act as Rogers' bitch to maintain his cover in SHIELD, so his brain and libido were having some kind of drunken frat party in his subconscious in rebellion. 

People noticed. Not _that_ , but the fact Rumlow’s mood hadn’t improved since his last mission de-briefing, and even Rollins was getting antsy around him. Rogers had started to look at him sideways, and that was the last fucking thing Rumlow needed.

“Any trouble, Brock?”

Rumlow almost turned and snarled in Rogers’ face at his casual comment in the elevator. “No trouble, Cap.”

“You seem on-edge. The rest of the squad noticed.”

Hell, could this elevator ride get any longer?

“Not my problem.” That was the fucking truth. It was Rogers’ fucking fault for having his goddamn face and that body wrapped in that star-spangled uniform. Why the hell did he wear that thing in the Triskellion anyway?

“If you need to talk, I’m always here,” Rogers said, somehow nailing both the “commander” and “friendly drinking buddy” tone in one.

Rumlow could feel his pulse rise and got out on the next floor without saying a word. The entire elevator just reeked of Rogers, some damn aftershave or soap or goddamned body mist, Brock didn’t know, but he was going to crack if he had to smell it for a second longer. He picked up his pace, heading for the nearest private space he could find. If he had to spend another minute in Rogers’ presence when it wasn’t a mission the way he was all worked up now… Someone was going to get hurt.

The expression on Rumlow’s face cleared the corridor in front of him in a gratifying manner. No one even dared to talk to him, and that gave Rumlow enough time to find the nearest open office and lock himself inside.

It felt like his blood was going into a boil, and if he didn’t get some kind of release, he was going to messily go insane. Whoever had this office could go fuck themselves if they came back; Rumlow needed the privacy more. He shoved his pants down hastily, feeling something in one of his side pockets poking against his thigh. The mere existence of it made him want to die, and the only reason he’d gotten it was for the exact same reason he’d asked the squad. At least that was what he’d said.

“Got a new girl who likes it up the ass. What do you use with your boyfriend, Rollins?” Jack had just rolled his eyes and gave back the same crap he’d been given, the usual locker room bullshit. But Rumlow had ended up with a little bottle of Astroglide and no one to use it on, not having enough patience in the past week to exert his usual charm. Until today, when Rogers had the temerity to just _exist_ , then the minute Rumlow put his hand to dick, Rogers might as well have been there as he began to stroke frantically.

“What crawled up your ass, Brock?” Rogers looked down at him, clearly expecting an answer. “You’ve been treating your team like you don’t even treat our enemies. I think that begs an explanation.”

“I don’t owe you a damn thing,” Rumlow snarled. His pulse was so hard he could hear it in his ears, and sweat was beading up on his face as he held his fists clenched at his side.

“I didn’t say ‘owe,’ Brock,” Rogers said softly, closing the gap between them. “I said, ‘beg.’”

Rumlow couldn’t get his hands up fast enough, but it didn’t matter. Rogers used those stupidly long legs to scythe Rumlow’s out from underneath him, setting him on his back and knocking the breath out of him before he could blink. He actually grayed out for a second, and when awareness came fully back, Cap had Rumlow’s pants and underwear around his ankles, hobbling him, and was crouched over him in reverse, his ass right in Rumlow’s face. His pinkish-brown, tight little hole was _right there_ , Cap’s hard erection poking down into Rumlow’s chest. In that second, Rumlow would have tried to castrate the fucker with his damn teeth, but Rogers had a hand around Rumlow’s balls, and it took just one hard squeeze to bring tears of pain to Rumlow’s eyes and make him nearly forget how to breathe.

“Whatever you do to me, I’ll do to you,” Rogers said with cheerful menace. “But starting now, whatever I do to you, you do to me. We’ll find out exactly what crawled up your ass, Brock. You’ll be a new man, after.”

There was a faint click, and then Cap’s fingers, slick with what had to be Rumlow’s shameful little bottle of lube, began to rub gently at his hole. It was slick, warm, and _weird_ , and he struggled against it, trying to get his ass away from Cap’s relentless attention.

“Brock, you’re gonna do this, or I’m going to hang your balls from my shield as a good-luck charm.”

The grip on Rumlow’s family jewels didn’t relent in the slightest. And he knew it would take Cap no effort at all to rip him apart and leave him sackless and bleeding.

Rumlow gave that a second’s thought, whether it was worth it to lose his balls to prove that he had them.

He went chickenshit at the last moment.

He gritted his teeth and went to move his hands to touch Cap’s ass ( _it’s not gay if it’s blackmail_ , he told himself over and over) only to have Rogers move lightning fast and trap his hands under his knees.

“Put that mouth to work, Brock,” Cap said sternly, rubbing a little more firmly. Brock gagged, swallowed, gagged again, and finally got control of himself. He lifted his head and applied his tongue to Cap’s asshole, touching it the same as Cap was touching him with a slick finger. The skin was crinkled, but yielded slightly to his touch as he got it wet. The smell and taste weren’t as bad as he’d feared, more salt and iron and a little bit of jock musk, but he dreaded what would happen next.

It was either eat shit, or lose his balls. Rumlow had eaten worse on different missions. Cap rubbed a little firmer, circling his hole, testing and pressing with a fingertip as Rumlow clumsily imitated the same pattern with his tongue. His face was burning with humiliation when his cock got too damn interested, filling out as Rogers breached him with a single finger. He hesitated, and Rogers squeezed just a little. Rumlow thrust his tongue in against the clench of Rogers’ muscles, and felt the finger inside him move deeper, twisting and running the Astroglide all around inside him. Spit didn’t work nearly so well, but with the threat of castration, Rumlow could make it work, and fast.

But he lost his rhythm a bit as Rogers pressed a second finger to him, his ass burning as the ring of muscle was forced apart. What the hell was he supposed to do, grow a second tongue? Rogers still had his hands trapped, and Rumlow hated rigged games.

“Flatten your tongue. Lick harder,” Rogers said in his battlefield command voice, and scissored his fingers without letting Rumlow adjust, the burn spreading. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to affect his erection at all, and Rumlow was getting embarrassingly hard. He choked and tried to follow Rogers suggestion, but when those long fingers stretched a little further and tapped something inside of him that made him gasp and see stars, he lost track of whatever he was doing. His face was mashed to Cap’s ass as Rogers unrelentingly rubbed something inside his body that made him want to spurt all over the floor (all over Rogers’ too-perfect face).

“I think we found what crawled up your ass, Brock,” Rogers said calmly. “Looks like a lot of repression. I know what you’ve been thinking about me. And I think you deserve my full attention. I see I’ve got yours.”

He stroked his fingers in and out, rubbing inside Rumlow’s body without stopping, the sounds of slick lube fucking obscene from where it was squelching out of his hole. Rumlow was so hard he couldn’t stand it, and struggled to get at least one hand free. Rogers didn’t relent, but also didn’t rip his balls off for not continuing to lick his ass.

“Give me a hand, damn it,” Rumlow snarled. “You fucking got me worked up, now don’t leave me hanging!”

Rogers just chuckled, and shifted his body. Now his ass was no longer over Rumlow’s face, but his thick erection was, the slightly glistening head just inches from Rumlow’s mouth.

“Kiss it and say please,” Rogers said, sounding cheerful. He pressed farther in with his fingers and pressed relentlessly on Brock’s prostate. His temperature spiked, and he felt like he was in a kill frenzy, everything in him narrowed to a single goal: orgasm at all costs.

Brock pressed his lips to the smooth head of Rogers’ dick.

Rumlow came, mouth turned into his shoulder to muffle his sounds, wrist cramped from reaching behind himself, _inside_ himself, dick still twitching untouched as the last pulses of cum shot from the tip. He gagged into the material of his shoulder as he withdrew his fingers, shining slick with lube and smelling like shit, body still wracked from the hardest orgasm he’d ever had. His shoulder was wet with his own spit from where he’d been tonguing and drooling on the material. Rumlow felt fucking out of control. His fucking _was_ out of control. No amount of nameless bimbos were going to clear this out of his brain.

Damn Rogers and his damn homo vibes. He was so damn relentlessly _there_ that his fantasies were going to destroy Rumlow’s life.

Rumlow hitched his pants back up and sat down on the nearest chair, pumping out two handfuls of hand sanitizer from the desk to try to clean his fingers again. He didn’t know if he was going to be able to make it to the launch of Project Insight without cracking, not how things were going now. What the hell was he going to do? He was going to end up shooting Rogers, or trying to, and if he did that before Command was ready, they’d take more than his testicles.

He pressed his now anti-septic hands to his face and breathed for several long minutes while his sweat dried on his skin and come dried on the carpet. Whoever had this office could get it clean on their own dime; Rumlow didn’t even give a fuck. He had to think of something to quell the fires in his brain and balls, anything other than disposable bodies-. Wait.

Command had to have something in place in case Rogers did something stupid and noble while Project Insight was in its final phase. Or if Fury caught wind of anything and needed to be put down. They wouldn’t leave anything to chance, not now. Which meant… the Asset was out of storage. 

They’d deployed him a half-dozen times since Rumlow had had clearance to know about him, and by now Rumlow had a very good idea as to exactly how long it took to get him functional out of cryo. There were stages to waking him up, from getting his bodily functions back to normal, to getting his brain reprogrammed to the right specs. Rumlow checked his watch. One day. He just had to wait one day. He breathed out slowly. Then breezed from the office, ignoring every stare anyone threw his way.

One day. He could do it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, we've got character death as a warning along with the usual HYDRA Trash Party warnings.

The Asset sat in his chair, nude, calmly confused, his usual post-awakening daze. There was something of a “golden hour” in the awakening process, a period of time between full physical testing and full cortex reprogramming where the Asset was blank, suggestable. He had to be in order for the wipes and memory implantation to work, but that state gave an opportunistic agent a fine opportunity. As long as you didn’t leave any damage that wouldn’t be healed up by the Asset’s go time, or hit any old trigger commands that would compromise the mission, Command would look the other way when someone wanted to inspect the company equipment. 

And, of course, if Rumlow had mistimed anything he’d end up triggering the Asset’s self-preservation protocols and all the combat experience that came with it. HYDRA considered that a sufficient deterrent for anyone who wanted more what was permitted. Rumlow didn’t care; he knew the timing, and what he wanted wasn’t going to take all day. He’d earned this a hundred times over.

He wasn’t worried about the support staff; Rumlow had put the fear of himself into the techs early on in his career, and they would stay the hell away if Rumlow came around. That he hadn’t ever taken advantage of his position this way didn’t mean shit. The techs knew better than to talk.

Rumlow knew who the Asset had been; he wouldn’t have made it to his current position if he hadn’t had enough initiative to figure it out himself before his first Asset Management lecture: Rogers’ childhood friend, Bucky Barnes. He couldn’t get back at Rogers, not now, but he could give his best friend a tenth of what was coming to him when HYDRA’s new world order came online. Rumlow felt himself get hard so fast it was nearly painful, and stalked forward to stand right in front of the Asset.

“You hear me?” he demanded.

The Asset nodded, lips parted slightly. They looked soft, and that long dark hair was swinging in his face. Why the hell didn’t the techs ever give him a haircut? It was one of the stupid mysteries of Command’s decisions. He almost looked like a girl like that.

The Asset made a small huff of surprised breath as Rumlow found his lips pressed against the Asset’s a second later, seeing if it were true. They were soft, a little chapped, and opened so easily, pliantly under Rumlow’s own. He tasted a little sweet inside, a little metallic, hot and wet. Rumlow felt his pulse pound in his ears as he prolonged the kiss almost against his will. His dick fucking _hurt_ inside his pants, and he struggled them open and shoved down around his thighs.

The Asset just remained where he was, mouth slightly open, lips wet, gazing up at Rumlow with blank eyes. His mouth, his goddamn _mouth_. Rumlow couldn’t look away, not until he saw that the Asset was getting interested in the proceedings, his own dick thick and hard between his legs. Sympathetic reaction or some other science bullshit, that’s what the techs had told him the first time he’d seen them use it to guide the Asset through some complicated decontamination procedure. He’d mirror whoever was in front of him to certain extent; that was how a group of soft nerds could keep the Asset under control without having to detail an entire squad to cover them every single second of his waking moments.

Rumlow wouldn’t even have to talk more than a dozen words. His cock _needed_ to be in the Asset’s mouth; he wanted to imagine Rogers’ face if he were wheeled in, strapped down, and forced to watch his former best friend taking Rumlow’s cock like it was all he wanted in the world.

It was easy, imagining Rogers tied up and beaten was one of the few non-jerk-off fantasies that still actually _worked_. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again, Rogers now strapped down to another chair, bruised and messy from being subdued, eyes despairing and beaten as he took in Bucky Barnes, naked and aroused and mouth slightly open, ready to take Rumlow’s dick. Rumlow shoved inside, reveling in the heat and slickness as he slotted into the Asset’s throat, admiring the way the Asset’s lips stretched around him. He just _took_ it, no whining about needing to slower, no shoving it to the inside of the cheek instead, no threat of teeth if he didn’t do what the Asset wanted. There was none of the bullshit he had to put up with from his pick-ups from bars. All he had to do was thrust, tangle his fingers in that long hair, and fuck however he wanted. It was heaven, and imagining Rogers’ face falling, then his head dropping down so he wouldn’t have to watch was just icing on the cake.

Then Rogers made some little sound. For a second Rumlow though he was choking or groaning with despair, either would have just made this that much better. Then he realized Rogers was chuckling.

“He feels nice, doesn’t he, Brock?” Rogers said casually, his face coming back up with a stern expression. “I ought to know; we were taking turns deep-throating each other all through Europe.”

Rumlow could just imagine the Asset in what would have been his old uniform, fumbling open Rogers’ red-white-and-blue costume to get at his prick, a pair of perverts who used combat as an excuse for their sick little games. He resolutely ignored… tried to ignore his recent history of jerk-off fantasies.

“He’s taking care of you real nice, isn’t he?” Rogers asked casually.

Rumlow was still thrusting deep into the Asset’s mouth, and felt a sudden caress on the underside of his cock as the Asset employed his tongue. He looked down to see the Asset looking up at him, those fucking blue eyes nailed on his. Sympathetic reaction, had to be. But where the hell had the tongue action come from?

“He likes it. He’s a pro at it. Used to suck cock for extra cash. Sometimes we came as a two-for-one special. Had to make ends meet somehow.”

“Fucking knew it,” Rumlow growled out, eyes fluttering a bit as the Asset leaned into Rumlow’s thrusts, that damnable tongue working in overdrive. 

“All those men who couldn’t admit to themselves that what they wanted wasn’t a dame, but another guy. He took care of them so nice.”

When the hell had Rumlow’s fantasy of Rogers turned into him delivering a lecture on being gay?

“Screw you,” Rumlow snarled, and then looked down at the Asset again. “No, screw _him_.”

He pulled out of the wet heat of the Asset’s mouth and made an abrupt gesture, one drilled into him for exactly this reason; his team used it all the time. The Asset stood, turned, and grabbed his ankles, ass on display and in easy reach. Rumlow fumbled for the lube in his pocket and poured it over the Asset’s hole, jamming it inside with short thrusts of his fingers to make him easy to take. He was hot in there, and tight, and Rumlow slowed his brisk, needful prep to feel how the Asset gripped around his fingers.

“He’s gonna feel so good around you, Brock. Gonna ruin you for anyone else. There’s going to be no other place you want to slot your dick, not after having him,” Rogers said.

Brock snarled at the apparition in his mind and yanked his fingers out and replaced them with his cock, thrusting in hard, no need to hold back. The Asset remained still, taking it easily, just grunting slightly in time with Brock’s thrusts. He was tight, god _damn_ he was tight, hot, and Brock could feel _everything_. Nothing had felt so good.

Rogers was right; he didn’t want to do anything else. No one else was going to be this obedient, this broken to saddle, give him this much satisfaction with the least amount of bullshit. Rumlow looked up to see Cap’s smirk and felt a need to destroy it.

“You’re never going to get much more out of him than a bullet, blade, or a fist to the face, Rogers,” Rumlow said, thrusting a few more times into the Asset’s compliant body. Once Rogers had been labeled a target, he wouldn’t be anything more than an objective for his former best friend’s body to terminate. “All mine. You got that, Rogers? Your boy is _mine!_ ”

His orgasm was unexpected and powerful, making Rumlow’s eyes water as he came hard, pulse after pulse into the Asset’s ass. The look on Rogers’ face was crestfallen betrayal, and Rumlow felt calm and satisfied for the first time in weeks. The Asset let go of his ankles and stood, Rumlow’s cum slowly dripping from his ass, but gave no indication that he felt it at all. The Asset’s cock was flushed and red, clear fluid beading at the tip.

“If he’s yours, Brock, then you better take care of your boy,” Rogers said, his voice sounding strangely no-nonsense, like he was recommending Brock do something for fieldwork. Rumlow felt something hot and uncertain thrumming through his gut as he watched the Asset stand there, cock remaining hard and needy. He’d done that, he’d been the one to get the Asset worked up. He could just do what the team did and leave it; it’d go away eventually, if not on its own, then through the re-imprinting process. 

“Touch him, Brock,” Rogers urged. Rumlow bit his lip and closed the gap, wrapping his hand around the Asset’s erection. He felt damn good in his hand, a powerful thickness with a silky texture, like handling a stun baton. The Asset looked at him with wide and almost pleading eyes as Rumlow stroked him once. This was the first dick he’d handled that wasn’t his own, if you didn’t count Tanner from middle school. Rumlow never did; his back still ached from the belt stripes if he did. He looked down to see another bead of wetness well up, and had the insane notion to see what it tasted like, to put his lips around it like he had in another fantasy a few days ago.

The Asset’s gray eyes locked on his, and Rumlow suddenly realized the time. He dropped his hand and stepped back, hitching up his pants and cinching his belt tight. The Asset’s eyes were gaining that too-knowing edge that meant he was ready for mission implantation and if Rumlow had… No matter if the techs were sworn to silence, they’d still…

“The Asset’s a tool, Rogers,” Rumlow said through tightly gritted teeth, trying to banish the last of his ghosts. “Tools do what they’re made for.” He scrubbed the hand that had been holding the Asset’s dick off on one pant leg. This had just been one huge fucking mistake. A little burst of insanity before Project Insight got off the ground. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Rogers was gone. Just him and the Asset, filthy with Rumlow’s come. 

It was enough. Rumlow turned and walked out without a backwards glance. In a week, assuming Rumlow didn’t have to empty a clip into Rogers’ head or the Asset didn’t end up killing him, they’d have him back here at HYDRA’s non-existent mercy. A week. 

He could do that.

\----

It had taken two years since the failure of Project Insight, two years since some of STRIKE had pulled Rumlow out of the wreck of the Triskellion, burned, broken, bleeding, and probably better off dead. He’d forced himself to stay alive for two reasons – he refused to give Rogers the satisfaction of dying, and he still had revenge to get.

Now he looked like some Frankenstein freak show, burned all over his face, arms, hands, and chest. Flame-resistant tactical pants and combat boots had spared his lower half the burns, but the broken legs had still been a bitch to heal. But he was alive. It was worth it, no matter how much the rest of his personal life was shot to shit, because no one else had been expecting him to be alive. Particularly not Steve Rogers.

They had him bound up in enhanced restraints, found off the grid in Bumfuck, Nowhere trying to find the defunct Asset. That was worth every scar and every sleepless night spent fucking his fist because not even paid company or drugged bodies were doing it for him anymore.

Rogers didn’t recognize him behind his mask, and that made this whole situation better. Rumlow wanted to savor the shock on his face when he realized exactly who was at the head of the team who’d captured him. Or who was the one standing behind him.

Rumlow had been waiting for this for a long time. He’d always been able to get what he wanted until Steve Rogers had come back to life. An ugly grin split Rumow’s burn-scarred face behind his mask; at least Rogers would get everything he had coming to him, with interest.

Rogers started as Rumlow stalked into the room, slamming and locking the door behind him. His motion was extremely limited because of the heavy-duty shackles on his arms and legs both. Neck too; Rumlow had no intention of leaning close to taunt him and getting a headbutt to the face. Transporting Rogers during Project Insight had been a total clusterfuck. Everyone had gotten too exciting to follow operational procedure and they’d lost their best opportunity to kill Rogers fast. Rumlow had had two years to rethink how he wanted Rogers tied down. He wanted revenge, not a reenactment of some of his darker nightmares.

(He resolutely ignored the rush of blood to his dick when he thought about Rogers effortlessly wrestling him to a standstill and making him take what came next. Those goddamn dreams had never stopped.)

Rumlow breathed deep and instead savored the helplessness of the man who was about to get everything he had coming to him. Rogers tracked his movements by sound, back stiff and shoulders tight as Rumlow walked behind him. Rumlow pulled out his knife and sliced away Rogers’ clothing, managing not to cut him too much. He had other plans to torture him and didn’t want blood on his new costume yet. 

(He wanted to see Rogers’ perfect body in all its glory before he wrecked it.)

As the last piece of clothing dropped to the floor, Rumlow paused. Rogers hadn’t said a thing the whole time. He was never at a loss for words, always tossing off some command or quip like he was a reality TV star whoring for air time. He was too damned quiet right now. For a second, Rumlow worried that this was part of an elaborate trap, but he could see the jammers on the walls were still active. No earwig or trackers or implants were going to lead his superfreak friends here. They’d been careful this time.

“Cat got your tongue, Rogers?” Rumlow asked. Rogers’ reaction was everything he could have hoped for, a flash of real surprise, fear, even a touch of incredulous panic before he locked it down. Rumlow looked forward to seeing those again real soon.

“Should have known you were too stubborn to die, Brock,” Rogers said, sounding far too casual. (Far too much like the opening of some of Rumlow’s shameful dreams.)

Rumlow’s pulse jumped sharply. “It’s all your fault, you righteous prick. Everything was fine, this world was going places before you showed back up. You should have stayed dead, Cap.”

“Things not working out so well without someone to think for you, Brock?”

The punch to Rogers’ kidneys wasn’t exactly elegant, but it got Rumlow’s point across. Rumlow didn’t have orders to keep Rogers alive now – he could indulge how he wanted. He didn’t care if he was rising to Rogers’ taunts, he was going to shut him up in a minute. He didn’t have to guard his tongue now; he could lay everything on the table.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Rogers. I’ve got something for you. Something your little fuckboy Barnes already got a taste of. Well. A lot more than a taste.” Rumlow pushed the hard outline of his cock against Rogers’ ass and felt him jerk in his restraints. He seethed wordlessly through his nose for a long moment before talking again.

“He’s going to kill you for that.”

Rumlow laughed, feeling a little bit unhinged and really not giving a fuck. It felt _good_ to be able to say what he’d wanted to for _years_. “What, you’re not man enough to defend your girlfriend’s non-existent virtue?”

“I don’t want to deny him the pleasure.”

Rumlow gave Rogers another half-dozen body blows to shut him up before opening up his own pants. “You brought this on yourself,” he snarled. He worked up a glob of spit and lifted his mask enough to land it on Cap’s ass. He shoved it inside roughly, getting him just wet enough not to chafe himself, and then followed it with his cock. Fuck. _Fuck_. He was so tight, so beautifully fucking tight and hot, better than every sick fantasy Rumlow had ever had. He was goddamned perfect. Of course he was. He had to be, always…

Rogers made a few pained grunts as Rumlow worked his way in, breathing in and out fast as Rumlow thrust a few times experimentally, his grip tightening as he fought off orgasm. He’d be damned if he didn’t draw this out as long as possible.

“Jesus, Brock, where the hell is this coming from?” Rogers asked, his voice strained and tight.

“ _You_ , you fucking gay prick! You were trying to do this from the start, you…” Rumlow lost words as he kept jerking his hips in and out, loving the way Rogers was wincing and tensing. “You deserve it…”

Rogers couldn’t move his head very much, but turned it as much as he was able as Rumlow increased his grip, thrusting hard and holding himself inside Cap’s tight heat. It was so good, even better than the Asset. His mind was racing to think of any way they could draw this out, maybe break Rogers enough that he could keep him as a pet, a souvenir when HYDRA finally established a new world order. 

“Brock,” Rogers said, and paused long enough to make Rumlow jerk his hips a little, just to get the man’s attention. A tiny smile replaced the teeth-gritted stoic expression he had been sporting, and Rumlow had a split-second to realize something was seriously wrong. “I’m not your ‘Asset.’”

Rumlow yelled as Rogers abruptly clamped down around his dick like a vice, so tight he couldn’t pull out and so painful Rumlow had tears pricking at his eyes. “HYDRA didn’t spend seventy years trying to brainwash me and put in goddamn commands so they could fuck a prisoner and make him take it without complaint.”

Rumlow grabbed for his gun and pressed it to Rogers’ skull, only to wince as he clamped down even harder.

“I’m positive I can pinch your dick off before you can pull the trigger. Even if you kill me, I might do it by reflex,” he said flatly, and Rumlow breathed harshly through his nose, not wavering the barrel from its home at Rogers’ temple.

“I can lift cars, survive hundred-foot falls, and go toe-to-toe with Iron Man, you think my ass is any less weak than my arms?”

Rumlow felt a roaring in his ears. This was like one of his sick fantasies come to life. His aim trembled a little, and his cock twitched despite the crushing pain. “Let me go right now you sick fuck I swear to God…”

“You got the drop on me, Brock. Congratulations. But I already found who you were looking for. I found Bucky. He remembers. _Everything._ ”

Rumlow could feel his hands starting to shake harder, and behind his mask he could feel the condensation from his rapid breathing dripping down his craggy burn scars in a parody of sweat.

“Bucky’s really protective of me. Always has been. This is one of HYDRA’s old safe-houses, isn’t it?”

There was a soft sound, the chatter of automatic gunfire, muffled by the heavy door. Rumlow debated dropping his gun for his knife. He might be able to salvage… something. Maybe his life.

There was an explosion behind him, and Rumlow gasped in pain when he tried to duck, only to have Rogers keep clamping down on him. He turned as much as he could to see the deadly outline of the Asset- of Bucky Barnes in full tac gear in the ruins of the doorway, gun in his hand, more strapped to his body, knives slotted everywhere. Rumlow shuddered, another flash of unwanted arousal thrilling through his nerves. Fuck, not _now_ , what the hell was wrong with him?

“Steve!” Barnes’ voice was full of doom as he saw Rumlow in his Crossbones gear, pants open, behind a naked and chained Rogers.

“Got him where I want him, Bucky. You take it from here. He’s all yours.”

Rumlow felt weak in the knees, shame burning him as words from something he hadn’t want to think about even in the dark were being said here, now, right in front of him and in imminent danger of coming true. 

Barnes ignored him for a moment, taking the time to use his metal arm to pull apart the chains of Rogers’ restraints. Any thoughts Rumlow had had about trying to shoot his way out of this had died when the unleashed Asset had walked through the door. His hands felt as nerveless as they had before rehab, and he didn’t even need Barnes knocking his gun away to disarm him.

“Let him go, Steve,” Barnes said, and the crushing pain stopped. Rumlow dropped to his knees, his dick still in agony but still desperately trying to get hard. He was fucked. He was so, so, so fucked.

“…Said I brought this on myself,” Rogers was saying.

Barnes looked down at Rumlow, and the sight of the two of them, naked Rogers and the Asset in full gear, both of them glaring down at him like he’d made the biggest fuck-up in the history of the world, made him damn near lose his breath behind his mask. “No…” he said, and bit back a moan as his sadly-abused cock twitched hard. The pain and pleasure blended and crested despite his attempts to hold back, and Rumlow gasped as he came hard, jerking his hips in involuntary circles.

“Jesus,” Barnes said, shaking his head. “Always knew he was messed up, but this is taking the cake.” Barnes raised his pistol to center on Brock’s head. “He’s my friend, asshole. I don’t even care about what the hell you did to me, but to him?”

Captain Boy Scout, Rumlow realized, wasn’t going to intervene. His breathing went harsh behind his mask. No fantasy here. Just a nightmare. His best nightmare. A laugh escaped him, and Barnes’ expression went murderous. 

_You’re living the dream, Brock,_ Cap’s voice taunted in his head, right before Barnes’ bullet silenced him forever.


End file.
